


The Spy Who Enchanted Me

by Evesi



Category: Assassin's Creed, James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassin's Creed III, F/M, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evesi/pseuds/Evesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haytham Kenway was the best agent in Her Majesty's service, but it would seem that he had at last met his match.  That said, he was quickly finding that he didn't mind nearly as much as he thought he would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gosh, I should not be writing/editing when I'm this tired. e_e
> 
> Anyway, uh. This was written for the following prompt on the AssCreed kink meme: _"The name's Kenway... Haytham Kenway."_
> 
> _James Bond AU where Haytham is 007 and Ziio is his not-quite-"Bond girl," and a Spy for the other side. She keeps on mucking up his assassinations, and interrupting his missions, making him look bad by saving his ass multiple times, yet he can't help but be completely enamored with her. They end up working together, and then have some hot, after-battle sex._
> 
> _Charles Lee as Q, and Washington as M maybe?_
> 
> I... went with Birch for M though. It seemed more appropriate. :|b

The first time they met was in Santiago, but saying that they actually _met_ would be rather... inaccurate. The truth of the matter was that _she_ stole _his_ kill. It bothered him more than he let on, even if the overall objective of his mission was now completed--at the end of the day, a dead target was still a dead target--but his ego was a little bruised. (There was also the problem that he’d have _more paperwork_ to fill out upon returning to London because of her interference.) Haytham had been planning the assassination for the better part of a month, and there she was, smirking at him from the adjacent rooftop.

Oh, yes, he could definitely confirm the smirking: Haytham had checked through the scope of his sniper rifle.

M hadn’t really cared for that minute detail about his mission, hadn’t really done anything but cock an eyebrow at him, and then politely asked him to submit a report on the situation--a report that would detail how a foreign spy had not only managed to edge her way into the inner workings of his operation but also on how she managed to best one of the finest agents they’d ever had. The man never said a word on his failings, but the _disappointment_ in his expression spoke volumes. Haytham had, of course, done as his superior asked without any protest and not another word about the woman he’d seen in Chile, even if his mind was abuzz with thoughts of her. No, he could control himself--after all, Agent 007 was a responsible adult who always placed work before any personal endeavors.

(His coworkers at the agency would say otherwise, but Haytham had long ago developed a rather deaf ear toward such gossip.)

Several jobs later, he’d all but forgotten about the foreign agent. Haytham was all too busy pursuing his next target in Johannesburg, the hunt ending with a rather spectacular gunfight in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. 

Well, it _would_ have been rather spectacular if Haytham wasn’t down to his last magazine and surrounded by about ten men with semi-automatic machine guns. When (yes, _when_ , not if) he got out of this situation, he was going to have a very stern talk with Q about the importance of developing a weapon that had infinite ammunition instead of spending all of his time trying to impress the 00 agents with exploding pens, grappling suspenders, and pictures of his Pomeranians.

(Spado, he would grudgingly admit, was a very lovely looking dog, but pets were always an awkward--or rather, a very _charged_ \--topic of conversation with the MI6 quartermaster. Haytham tried to avoid talking about them at all costs lest he inadvertently upset the man and ended up with some faulty equipment.)

The concrete pillar at his back shook as his enemies continued to riddle it with bullets, and then, quite suddenly, there was a shout and a loud clatter--the sound not unlike a gun hitting the floor. A smattering of English was quick to follow before Haytham heard a gurgle and then panicked shouts.

Curiosity made him want to look, but instincts told him to stay put and wait. After all, whatever was going on was making the gunmen fire rather indiscriminately, if the messy spray of bullets against the walls was anything to go by. Hands closed around the grip of his gun, Haytham calmly waited until the last of the screaming had come to a stop, soon followed by the thunk of dead weight hitting the floor.

“Afraid to get your hands dirty?” came a female voice, and Haytham canted his head slightly, eyebrows lifting; she had a distinctly _American_ accent. Without even seeing who was on the other side, he was positive it was the woman from before--the one who’d stolen his kill back in Santiago.

“I was merely waiting for the opportune moment to strike, but you do have a certain talent for stealing a man’s thunder,” he replied, leaning back against the column. Haytham likely could have stepped out now that she was done, but he was still a spy and she an unknown. She’d acted like an ally up to this point, and yet, one never knew in this game... “Is this a hobby of yours?”

“Saving lousy English agents?” He could definitely hear the amusement in her voice and the smugness in her tone. “I’m thinking of making it one.”

By all rights, Haytham should have felt insulted. After all, this would be the second time she would make a fool out of him, and M would not be all that pleased to hear that his mission had, once again, been a success due to the interference of another. On top of that, the agent was _American_ from the sound of it--news that was sure to make M’s scowl even darker. (The man seemed to have a rather personal grudge against the nation. Something about an old rivalry against a CIA agent named Davenport? Haytham wasn’t entirely clear on the story, but he seemed to recall that the collection of ancient artifacts was somehow involved.)

Despite all of the problems that could and would crop up because of her, Haytham could not bring himself to care. He was, to put it simply, enchanted by this woman. “I’ll have to set up future opportunities for you,” he called out. “I can’t stand the thought of depriving you of enjoyable material to work with.”

Haytham waited for a response, but the only one he got was silence. At last removing himself from the cover of the pillar, he discovered, with chagrin, that she was long gone; there was nothing to show that she’d even been here--save for the bodies that she’d left behind.

To say that her method of killing was... _elegant_ would probably be wrong, but he couldn’t really think of another way to describe it. After all, for someone to be using knives (and _rope darts_ , of all things!) in this day in age was almost laughable, and _yet_ , here was proof that, in the right hands, such methods were still completely and utterly viable.

Either way, Haytham left his awe out of his report to M and listened with half an ear as the man berated him. The droning went on and on, but when he heard the words, “You’ll be working with a CIA operative this time around,” his attention shot right back into focus--perhaps a little too suddenly, seeing as M gave him a rather sharp look.

“As I was _saying_ , 007, you’ll be working with a CIA operative on this mission,” the man continued, pushing a folder across the desk; Haytham picked it up and flipped through its contents. “Pay a visit to Q, and then be on your way. You are dismissed.”

“Sir.”

“Oh, one more thing, Kenway.”

Haytham had just turned on his heel, and he glanced over his shoulder at his commanding officer. “Sir?”

“Be careful when speaking to Q. He’s rather upset that the Pomeranian did not win best in show at Crufts.”

His lips quirked a little in amusement. “Duly noted. Good day to you, sir.”

“Good day, 007.”


	2. Chapter 2

The thing that bothered him the most about Q Branch was the dog smell that permeated the area. It wasn’t especially strong (and was thankfully not the scent of _wet_ dog), but Haytham could never help but wrinkle his nose each time he stepped foot into the division. When the quartermaster would inquire about why he always seemed so unhappy to be in the area, he’d always sidestep the question by asking about the closest looking item (preferably one that seemed dangerous and explosive) or picking it up and causing mass panic in the area.

(Haytham would admit, under pressure, that he took quite a bit of pleasure from terrorizing the individuals who worked in Q Branch.)

Greeted by three Pomeranians, today’s visit seemed to be no different from the norm. They wagged their tails, one of them even yipping at him, and Haytham gave the dogs a weak smile, desperately hoping that none of them would try jumping on his leg and getting fur all over his suit. (Having dog hair all over oneself was decidedly _not_ threatening and tended to kill the mood in the bedroom as well.) Really, the quartermaster was lucky that M had allowed the blasted creatures here; that was favoritism, no doubt about it!

“Ah, Kenway!” Q said, waving a hand from behind an array of shelves. “Over here! I’m just about done with my newest project.”

Curious, Haytham made his way over, hands clasped behind his back. Gaze sweeping over the worktable, there wasn’t anything obviously _military_ about the spread there, unless Q was working with exploding paper and that pair of scissors morphed into something a little more deadly. (Haytham wouldn’t completely discount the possibility, seeing as the man _had_ come up with a Swiss Army _sandwich_ before--very original but, sadly, not very practical.) “Is it anything I can use? M told me to come see you before I head off.”

At that, Q opened his mouth to say something, gave him an odd smile, and then winked, holding up what appeared to be a... scrapbook? Filled with photographs of Pomeranians? “Not quite.” Haytham took the item and flipped through it, eyebrows slowly rising toward his hairline. “Those would be all of the dogs that made it to Crufts this year.” And by all of the dogs, Q clearly meant the Pomeranians, as there weren’t any other breeds present in the book. “Prince John Barker of Woofington here won best in class.

“It was his second time to be shown there, and I must say that that extra year was all it took for him to really start to shine. You see, his coloring took a bit of time to mature and--”

“Q?”

“Yes?”

“Did you have anything for _me_?” He offered his best smile and hoped that he was being gentle enough. Creating a scrapbook seemed like some sort of coping mechanism on the quartermaster’s part, and Haytham hated the idea of discomforting the man. After all, if even _M_ was telling him to step carefully around Q, then he’d do well to be on his best behavior; there would be time enough later on to tease him about his canine obsession.

Q blinked, his train of thought derailed, before adjusting to the shift in conversation. The quartermaster deflated, and for a moment, Haytham thought that he’d have to show a sudden interest in dogs before Q rebounded. “Ah, yes, just a moment.” He took the scrapbook back, placing it carefully on the shelf, before hurrying deeper into the workshop, a small entourage of dogs on his heels; Haytham would never cease to be amazed that the quartermaster never tripped over his own pets. “It’s not as interesting as the showing at Crufts, but...

“I believe this is what you’re looking for?” Q continued as he came back, holding an envelope and a small, black case. “The usual documents, including your passport, a ticket to Taipei, a Walther PPK, and a small, distress-signal radio.” He offered 007 a small, brief smile. “Not that you’ll be needing it, of course.”

Haytham returned the gesture and looked inside the case, noting with some amusement that the radio was shaped and colored like Spado, his tail serving as the on and off switch. There was just one other thing that he’d been hoping for, and he stood waiting, expectant. It took a moment, but Q figured it out, eerily in tune with Haytham’s thought processes as he was sometimes. With a knowing smile on his lips, he held up a hand, disappeared for a moment, and then reappeared with another box. “And here are few extra magazines.”

His lips quirked into another smile. _Much_ better. After that last fiasco in Johannesburg, Haytham was _definitely_ not going back into the field with so few rounds. Certainly, it probably dropped his cool factor a few points, but in this instance, he’d accept a bit more survivability over that. After all, it was rather hard to impress people when one was, ah, _dead_.

“Is there anything else you need?” Q asked, hands clasped in front of him. He was wearing an over-eager look on his face, the one that said that he wanted to be talking about his dogs again but wasn’t because he was trying to be professional. Oh, on occasion, that face meant that Q sought to force some new device on him, but that was much more uncommon.

Maybe he’d indulge the quartermaster one of these days over a cup of tea, but... Today was not that day. Haytham had documents to go over, equipment to examine, plans to formulate, and a lovely lady to daydream about; there simply was no _time_ to linger about.

“An evening to pack and a full night’s rest,” he replied, giving Q a lazy smile and patting him on the shoulder. The quartermaster sighed quietly and nodded his head in understanding.

“Of course, sir. Safe travels and--” Haytham smirked, already expecting the words that would follow. “--Try to bring back your equipment in one piece.”


End file.
